


death of a bachelor (a lifetime of laughter)

by ang3lba3, Mellomailbox



Series: Polycule? More like poly COOL [8]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM Scene, Bottom Roy Mustang, Crossdressing, Dom Edward Elric, Dom/sub, Edward Elric Swears, Established Relationship, Humor, Idiots in Love, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Roleplay, Safeword Use, Top Edward Elric, mentions of their respective wives but like theyre polyam its not cheating, petplay for like a second but its not pursued at all, sub Roy Mustang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellomailbox/pseuds/Mellomailbox
Summary: Roy has a fantasy. Ed tries to make it happen.Contains: Edward Elric giving his sexiest shot at 'simply a housewife', Roy Mustang attempting to safe word out of a feelings discussion, a gravy boat filled with lube, and mentions of the titular novel "Eastern Girls Make Due".Pertinent series knowledge in beginning Author's Note.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang, other ships mentioned - Relationship
Series: Polycule? More like poly COOL [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578928
Comments: 13
Kudos: 83





	death of a bachelor (a lifetime of laughter)

**Author's Note:**

> pertinent series knowledge:  
> \- Roy (bisexual disaster) is married to Riza (competent lesbian) for political reasons. Ed is married to Winry, and they have 2 children.  
> \- The wedding night references are in an as of yet unfinished fic [of the EdWin wedding.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534756) Quick FULL summary is that Winry gave Ed a chance to choose Roy instead. Roy said no, and then drunkenly kissed Ed at the reception. Ed proceeded to try and murder Roy with his bare hands. Their relationship has improved exponentially since.  
> \- this was written in like 2-3 days and im fuckin living my best life yall
> 
> find ang3lba3 on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/cryingiscooltm)

Roy opens the door to Edward Elric perched delicately on a kitchen chair in the middle of his foyer. It’s disconcerting for many reasons, starting with the fact that he had been sure he would arrive home exhausted, eat a canned meat sandwich, drink some cheap whiskey and spend the evening in his study. His briefcase is under his arm, proof of concept, steel-lined leather digging into his hip. (A gift from Ed; alchemically protected but also able to be transmuted into a weapon, should he be ‘left out in the rain like the useless mutt he is. Bark bark.’)

“Honey, you’re _home_ ,” Ed bites. It sends a thrill down his spine that snaps it straight and pulls the slouch from his shoulders. Ah. _So it’s like that._

“I am,” he agrees. His voice is already a little rough and Ed’s smirk widens and curves, taking shape into something satisfactory. Predatory. 

Ed taps the pointed toe of one of his red heels against the oak flooring impatiently, the other crossed demurely at his ankle. No pantyhose-- probably the automail would rip them-- and he knows Ed’s appraising him as he appreciates the curve of his calf where it disappears underneath a full skirt. The pattern’s kitschy, white polka-dots on red fabric, exactly the dress they saw the lead woman in the picture wearing on their date last visit. 

“Roy,” Ed says sharply. Roy’s not done admiring the costume-- has barely even started, and are those _pearls_ around Edward’s neck? His eyes are lined with black liner, lashes thick and dark and it frames his gold eyes in a way that somehow makes them even more alluring. Roy gets lost in them for a moment, until they start to twinkle in amusement, Ed’s nose scrunching up the way it does when he’s trying not to laugh at Roy’s expense specifically. 

Then there’s that _mouth_ , goddamn, he’s so, so very screwed. Ed’s wearing a deep red lipstick perfectly applied. There’s a golden curl stuck to his bottom lip, loose from his victory curls that are immaculately pinned to his temples, and Roy resists the urge to rescue it from the wax and return it to it’s pin. He knows if he tried, Ed would smack his hand, or worse. He glances back up. 

Ed’s definitely laughing at him, probably heady with satisfaction over the power he now has over Roy. In a fit of pettiness Roy frowns and sets down his briefcase so that he can cross his arms. “How’d you get past Lillette?” 

“Sweetheart, I’m your wife,” Ed says, red lips spread wide in a mocking grin. “Of course she let me through. Who else was going to make sure you had dinner waiting?”

That--jolts through Roy, even though it’s blatantly untrue. It’s a mash of different concepts (Ed being seen and known as his, Ed being in his spaces so often it’s not worth remark by his security, Ed in that dress and those pumps walking past Lillette and the entire world into Roy’s kitchen and no one _caring)_ that flash by muddled and arousing.

Roy doesn’t smell anything cooking, now that he’s thinking about it. Suspicion and anticipating roil in his gut, thickening and settling lower. He still has his shoes on, as Ed acknowledges with a pointed glance at his feet. 

“I just mopped,” Ed lies. “I can’t believe you--tracking mud over my clean floors.”

“Ah,” Roy tries, and there’s gravel in his throat. “I’m-- apologies, _dear_.” He can’t help it-- it comes out mocking, instinctive, and he winces in preparation for what’s to come. 

Ed stands, balancing easy and cat like in the heels, like he wears them every day. When he walks across the floor, they leave little dots of mud behind. Roy can’t help but snort in disbelief at the _gall—_

“Oh? You think that’s funny?” Ed asks, voice no longer a mockery of coquettery, steel in every syllable. He catches Roy’s chin between his steel fingertips, nudges his face down. Not so far down, with those heels. Roy can’t stop taking him in, cataloguing the minute differences like he’ll never see them again. “Are you even paying _attention_ to me?” There’s a pause, a moment between scene and reality, and Ed’s eyes maintain their steel as he asks, gently, “what’s your safeword, darling?” Roy swallows once, twice, before he can get it out. “Sandstone. Yours?” 

“Rain. And when do you use it?”

“When I want you to stop, if I want you to pause, or if I need to talk about something,” Roy recites. His heart is trembling in his lips, in his throat, in his veins.

Ed’s fingers tighten around Roy’s chin. 

“I spent hours cleaning. Hours doing your paperwork, your laundry, making your food. And the whole time I’m waiting for you to come home… so lonely and bored I do up my face… and when you get here you give me nothing but sass?” he asks, soft and sing song. “You don’t even take off your shoes. Just look at that floor.”

Ed gestures to the marks his heels had left. Dark smudges across the white and green linoleum. “I should make you lick it up. The floor was clean enough to eat off of before you got here, and now look at it.”

There’s a distinct line between where the oak paneling ends and the linoleum begins, transmutation marks little bridges across the divide. Ed really went all in for this (sneaking past his guard, breaking in, setting up in the foyer so Roy would see him right away instead of panicking that someone was in his home and potentially ruining the scene) and Roy hasn’t even made it into the house yet. “Dear,” he says again, can’t wrap his mouth around Ed’s name, (yet-- he will, sooner than he thinks he’s ready for,) “those were _your_ shoes.” Was Ed _outside?_ Did he transmute dirt just for authenticity? The moment the words leave his mouth he knows he’s made a mistake and he thrills with the anticipation of it. 

Ed’s mouth twists in disgust, and he rips his hand away from Roy’s chin. Careful, so much more careful than he is with himself, and the metal seams don’t leave a mark. Roy staggers, as if two fingers had been all that was holding him up. 

_“Dear,_ ” Ed spits, and his left hand grabs the back of Roy’s neck, lightning quick as he steps to the side. He doesn’t push down just yet, gives Roy a moment to change the tune. 

Roy stays frozen, a giddy laugh bubbling past his lips.

Ed grabs his shoulder as well then, pushes him to his knees. It doesn’t take much work. Roy’s legs helpfully decide to stop standing the second pressure is exerted. 

“If you have nothing better to do with your mouth than talk back to me, then I’ll find a better use for it.”

Blood rushes in his ears and through his veins and between his legs. Ed can’t be serious. Roy leans down and can’t even smell a hint of ozone, Ed must have been here for a while, planning and building and making every aspect of this perfect for him. For Roy. Ed won the game, but he’s built this fantasy for Roy. Still, he can’t expect him to eat _dirt._ He’s inches away, staring intently, trying to make out what exactly Ed used or made or, god forbid, stepped in. It’s erotic, but also disgusting, and he’s teetering on which is winning out in his mind. 

“I did mean it,” Ed says, the cruel tone gone. “They’re _clean_ enough to eat off of. Trust me.”

And Roy. God help him. Roy wants to. Roy wants to trust him so bad he’s shaking with it, wants it bad enough to lick dirt off the floor if Ed says he’ll enjoy it. ‘Clean enough to eat off of’. It’s a riddle, and there’s not enough blood in his brain to solve it. 

He leans down closer, sniffs it curiously. 

Chocolate.

“What are you, a fucking dog? Sniffing your food before you eat it?” Ed laughs, and gives a pointed little kick to Roy’s thigh. “Eat it up like one, then.”

Roy’s mouth fills with saliva and he opens it, glancing up at Ed briefly before his bangs obscure his face, lets Ed see the fruits of his labor. It’s good chocolate, dark, and he presses the flat of his tongue against the linoleum and does his best to lick it all in one swipe. 

“Get all of it,” Ed says softly. “There’s a good boy. There’s _my_ good boy.”

“Sandstone,” Roy whispers, lips against the floor. 

Ed immediately takes a step away and kneels, dropping the persona. “You okay?”

“Sorry, no, it’s just-- dogs,” he grimaces, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip to catch the remaining sugar. He doesn’t want to get up, comfortable with his forehead against the floor, eyes drifting closed so he doesn’t have to see Ed out of character. 

He can practically hear Ed’s face crinkling awkwardly. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t even really think about that? I was just kinda. I dunno. Running my mouth. Okay. Yeah. I’ll be careful! Sorry.”

“Mm. You’re so thoughtful, darling,” Roy whispers, shoulders relaxing. There’s still anxiety, little threads pulling at him, wanting him to call this off, but he knows from experience as soon as Ed’s in control again he’ll feel. Safe. Or something. 

“Resume in thirty seconds?” Ed asks. “Or—”

Roy nods before he can start presenting alternatives. Starts counting in his head, Ed’s hands gentle in his hair, keeps losing track somewhere around eight, too busy listening to Ed move. Too busy feeling the gentle brush of the skirt whispering against his skin as Ed takes back up his position by Roy’s side. 

“Well would you look at that,” Ed says, a grudging amount of respect in his voice. Roy opens his eyes. “You’re almost good for something after all.”

There’s a flush through Roy’s body that’s close enough to pride that he huffs. A little bit of backhanded praise and he’s helpless, slowly leaning up to press his face against Ed’s skirt. Ed allows it, even pets his hair, traces fingertips over the side of his face and the space between jaw and neck. They stay there like that for a moment, settling back in. Ed’s hand creeps back into Roy’s hair, then tightens, tugs upward. A warning.

“Come on then. Up. I didn’t spend all that time eating dinner so you could be full off of what you tracked in,” Ed pauses. “Cooking. Cooking dinner.”

Roy can’t help it when he laughs, a freedom of expression gifted to him by Ed’s firm fingers and delicate control. It’s morphine, loosening his limbs and his tongue and filling his mind with warm, comfortable fog. “I’m sure you did both splendidly, my dear,” he teases, obediently standing and bracing for the reprimand he deserves. 

Ed snarls, gets a hold on the back of Roy’s neck and uses it to drag him into the kitchen. “Sass. You never learn. And here I thought I’d finally gotten some sense into you.”

Despite Ed’s slip up and the absence of cooking aromas, Roy’s still surprised to find that there’s not actually any food on the table. Or the counters, or the stove. No immaculate turkey feast, or bags of takeout, or simple cold sandwiches waiting for them. The table is set, the regular dinner plates and wine glasses in their usual spots. There’s also a tablecloth, unlit candles, and a myriad of their sex toys settled on the plates. The centerpiece is a collar and chain, anklets and wrist cuffs circled around it, little silver chains anchored to pretty hooks nailed into the leather. The dishware boast a few bottles of lube (and a suspiciously viscous liquid inside the gravy boat), a dildo, a pyramid of dick-shaped vegetables, a ball gag, and a blindfold. He catches sight of a crop in the flower arrangement before Ed’s grip tightens and he turns Roy’s face away from the spread.

Ed releases him in front of the table, and hops himself up onto it. There’s an incongruous sort of noise as he does, non-ceramic objects being misplaced, the lube in the gravy boat sloshing. Ed looks pointedly at the low stool set in front of him until Roy sits. 

It’s awkward, to say the least. His legs are much too long, and it makes him higher than if he was kneeling but shorter than if he was sitting properly. This must be how Ed feels at restaurants with low chairs - his shoulders barely clear the table. 

Ed flips up his skirt. “Dinner is _served.”_

“Is that a cucumber?” Roy asks. 

Ed pulls the cucumber out of his underwear. Stares at it a bit. “You know. This whole sausage metaphor was sexier in my head.”

“Is that a cucumber I’m meant to…” Roy trails off. Snaps his teeth for emphasis. 

“Look, it was like— I have been reading _housewife magazines for weeks_. The number of times they mention cucumbers as a solution for a light ‘midday meal’ when you’re ‘missing your husband’-- I already said it was sexier in my head!”

Roy purses his lips in an effort to hold in his giggles. A few break free. “Shouldn’t it have been _corn_?”

Ed slaps him with the cucumber a bit around the face, poking it at his lips. That lets the giggles out. “I’m a housewife making do in the city, I’ve got some fucking class. That’s for _country boys_ making do, and I’m still waiting on finding a hay supplier in Central. Y’alls hay is _shit_ here. Some asshole tried to give me fucking straw. Straw. Like I’m not speakin’ with the thickest Eastern accent I can fuckin muster, and this fucker is trying to tell me this is ‘genuine hay’.”

“I’m going to come home one day to find my living room turned into a barn, aren’t I?” Roy asks.

Ed flops onto his back, letting the cucumber lay on his stomach, absently fondling it. “Damn it. _Fuck._ I worked so fucking hard on this.”

Roy licks his lips, mind working fast. That’s— not a good sign there. Ed doesn’t admit defeat easily, and embarrassment even less easily. But this isn’t Ed’s fantasy, is barely Ed’s comfort zone, and he’s lost the thread of it.

The least Roy can do is help him find it again.

Roy stands, sets his shoulders back, tries to project the casual kind of arrogance he imagines most Generals wear at home. “Honey, I’m home.” “Are you?” Ed muses, still flushed with quiet humiliation. 

“I _am,_ ” Roy says firmly, flipping Ed’s skirt down and helping him to his feet. “And I’ve had just the worst day at the office, you won’t believe it.”

Ed rolls his eyes. “Every day at the office is the worst day, for you.”

“Every day not home with you is the worst day,” Roy corrects, and leans in to kiss Ed’s poleaxed expression. “I missed you terribly, darling.”

Ed’s eyes sharpen, his lips setting into a determined line. “Then why weren’t you home earlier?” he asks, and the game’s back on. “If you missed me so much, I wouldn’t have had to spend nearly so much quality time with Mr Cucumber here.”

Ed brandishes the cucumber demonstratively, and Roy chokes on his own breath trying not to start laughing again. 

“Oh? You think that’s _funny?_ ” Ed asks, and crowds Roy forwards, until they’re backed up against the wall. Roy can feel the calendar behind him, the paper scrunching weirdly, the nail that holds it up poking at his shoulder blade. He can feel--everything. Acutely so. Ed drops the cucumber, and it hits the floor, rolls away. “You have no idea what it feels like, being so empty that you can’t even breathe. Spending hours planning the perfect night so that you might spend a little longer the next morning, might come home a little earlier.”

Ed slips one hand inside Roy’s suit coat, slips the other between their bodies to curl around his belt buckle. His breath is hot against Roy’s neck, the words wet. There’s something about his nails, harder than normal, cold through Roy’s shirt. “I should fill you up with me. Go so deep inside you that you can’t breathe without saying my name, until you can’t think without hearing what I’d say about it. Make you see what it’s _like_.”

He can’t help it when he arches his neck, revealing the delicate, vulnerable line to Ed’s red teeth. Fire trails in the wake of Ed’s teeth, his tongue flat against the burn. He sets his bite right under Roy’s ear, right where everyone would see it even with his collar pinned up. Nobody would know it’s Ed’s doing. (They’ll think it’s his wife, and he thinks again of that first moment walking in, when Ed said ‘of course Lilletta let me through.’) He settles, fingers curling painfully into Roy’s skin through his shirt, and Roy shivers, and waits. “You want it?” Ed asks. His voice doesn’t waver, thin and teasing and completely in control. 

“Yes,” Roy breathes. 

“Foolish,” Ed chides. “Haven’t I just told you how awful it is?” 

His hand works Roy’s belt open, the button, the zipper. 

“Do you want it like I had myself, earlier?” Ed asks, nipping at his throat. “Or do you want it how I want you?”

“How do you want me?” Roy asks, mind sliding directly over _like I had myself, earlier,_ and into territory that won’t drive him mad. Ed’s fingers skate along the sensitive skin of his hips, nails cold and he twitches away from it and then desperately forward. 

“I want _all of you,”_ Ed groans.

Gods, he’s drowning, Ed’s hands anchors dragging him down. He sucks in a desperate breath, then another, and Ed’s thumbs find the delicate path on either side of the root of Roy’s dick and stroke. His whole body shudders and he manages a shallow breath, enough to say, “M’not sure the boss would let you have _all_ of me, or the reports wouldn’t get filed.” 

It’s funny cause it’s true, and he’s got Riza in his head when Ed turns, gold hair brushing at Roy’s neck and he shoves her out of his mind in favor of moaning like a whore at the delicate caress of Ed’s curls. There are lines and there are lines inside his head, and he may be playacting at a pretty blonde being his wife, but thinking about his own wife while he does--there are _lines_ , and then there _are lines._

“How unsanitary would it be to have you over the kitchen sink?” Ed asks. He’d turned to scan the room with a critical eye. “I certainly spend enough time bent over it.”

“Wouldn’t it be me having you, then?” Roy contemplates, huffing dramatically as Ed shoves against his sternum and then shouting (not screeching!) when there’s a sudden and unexpected flash of pressure-pain-pleasure. Every point of focus is on Ed’s flesh fingers where he’s got him gripped by the base of his cock, Roy on his toes in an effort to relieve the pressure even as he chases after it with a stutter of his hips. 

“You having me do the _dishes,_ ” Ed says. “We both know who really wears the pants in this relationship.”

It’s funny because it’s _pant-_ ently untrue, and it’s arousing for the same reason. Or the same type of reason, anyways. He so rarely bottoms, not be design or intent, but by happenstance. Or as it so happens, not happening-stance. 

He’s going mad. He can’t think. It’s the dire stage of confusion and attraction that manifests as relentless puns.

“Seeing as you having me _panting_ at your fingertips,” Roy breathes, then whines when Ed twists his wrist meanly. “ _Ah._ ”

“Eh, we got a real wise guy here, eh?” Ed says, adding a radio announcer’s twist to his voice, then dropping it. “You keep trying to impress me. I’m not going to laugh. I don’t think…”

His hand is moving, moving, horrible awful beautiful things.

“...anything about this is funny. I’m going to eat you alive,” Roy moans pitifully, “ and you’re going to like it, and you’re going to say _thank you_ without a single—” 

“Thank you,” Roy gasps, head back against the wall and rolling as he struggles against the slide of Ed’s palm, too dry and rough and fucking delicious. “Thank you, honey, darling, _sweetheart,_ thank you.” 

_“Fucking hell,”_ Ed mutters. “Fuck fucking hygiene, I’ll alchemize the filth off the entire place if I have to. Can you brace yourself? Like this? Or do you need to hold onto the counter?”

Roy shakes his head, a whine low in his throat. His hair shifts and gets stuck in the sweat of his eyelids and he wishes that Ed would take his jacket, his clothes off, he’s _burning alive._ Still, he drops his mouth open, suggestive, tongue flat and waiting. “I thought it was time to eat,” he murmurs helplessly, face heating at how _not_ smooth and how fucking _embarassing_ saying that out loud is. 

“You poor man,” Ed says. He drops a kiss at the corner of Roy’s mouth. “No such thing as a free meal, hm.”

Roy licks his lips, frustrated that Ed didn’t fall for the obvious invitation, and grips Ed’s hips over the soft material of his dress. “Is the bacon really free when I’m the one bringing it home?” He asks a little senselessly. Ed looks at him piteously. 

“If you want me at your bacon,” Ed says, and his hands grip at Roy’s ass. “All you have to do is _turn around.”_

“Are you calling me a pig?” Roy asks.

“Oh my God, fucking city boys,” and Ed is manhandling Roy, spinning him around until he faces the wall. “Stay. Or you’ll regret it.”

Roy’s whole body lights up at that and he has to brace himself against the wall and pant his way through it. “Sweetie,” he asks, knowing it’ll rile Ed up worse than any of the other pet names. He tenses, waiting. 

Ed doesn’t answer. Instead Roy can hear the clack of his heels across the hardwood of the kitchen, up to the table. He needs to turn around. He’s not sure what _regretting it_ will mean if he turns around. He needs to know what Ed means. He _needs_ to regret it. Probably. 

“Does the evening progress to the bedroom, by chance?” Roy asks, voice only wavering slightly as he glances faux-casually over his shoulder. 

Ed’s got his entire left hand in the lube-gravy boat. 

“Can’t you do _anything_ right?” he snaps, flushing red, caught lube-handed. “I said to stay fucking _still,_ you goddamn menace.”

He stomps his way back over, walking so harshly on the heels Roy’s afraid that one will snap out from underneath him, but they hold firm. Most likely reinforced with metal to hold up under his weight and the strain of the automail. He should be turning his face back to the wall, he knows it—but he can’t tear his eyes away. Ed is radiant. And silly. And wearing the white gold studs he’d bought him, he hadn’t noticed that earlier.

Ed, lit up and furious, within touching range, so close that Roy is breathing in his air—

Wipes his hand on Roy’s ass. 

Roy yelps at the cold slime, but Ed grins remorselessly. “I said you’d regret it.”

There’s a bit of a pavlovian response to anything slick on his ass, at this point in their relationship, and despite the inherent childishness of the gesture he moans a little and pushes back against Ed’s palm. “That’s not so bad,” he decides, glancing at Ed’s enraged expression for a moment before his vision blurs. 

Ed pushes his upper body close to Roy’s, crowds him hard against the wall, until talking would be difficult if not impossible. He leaves room for his hand to slide down the cleft of Roy’s ass, letting the lube warm from the friction and the heat of their skin, starting to massage at his hole. “Want it to stay not so bad? _Do what I fucking say._ I won’t warn you twice. _”_

Roy can’t help it-- he really, _truly_ can’t. A challenge like that hasn’t made it past him once in the entirety of their relationship, professional or otherwise, and he bites his lip and adds, “but you’ve just warned me twice already. Perhaps you meant _thrice._ I understand if you’re too busy on laundry to study much, so perhaps I can--” 

Ed presses a finger in and puts his automail hand where Roy can see it. “Do you like my nails, honey? I got them just for you. Bullet casings. Not very sharp, not really. Not very dangerous.”

They’re a pretty, shiny copper, and Roy realizes why he was clocking them as different every time they touched him. Each one is a perfect size, short enough that Ed can still write and fight and use the typewriter. He can still plait his hair, and the tips are rounded, not sharp, so if he wanted to-- to _take care of himself_ , as he mentioned earlier, there wouldn’t be any danger of lacerations or tearing. Gods above, if he wants to take care of _Roy_ there won’t be any damage, and Ed taps his fingers lightly against the wall so that Roy can hear the way the metal rings. Riza would kill for those. Perhaps for her birthday. 

_Lines,_ he reminds himself, and he licks his lips, leaning forward before he can think too hard on the impulse to taste the metal. Of course, Roy hasn’t been nearly well enough behaved for the privilege of sucking on Ed’s automail fingers, and before he can really get a flavor profile going they slip from between his lips. 

Ed puts his hand gently around Roy’s neck— not too tight, not against the middle, where the slightest pressure would make Roy feel choked. Low enough that his nails rest equally against Roy’s collarbone as against his throat. “Not very dangerous at all. I have to be careful, though. Because with too much pressure—”

Ed presses down with his pinky, the one resting against Roy’s collarbone. It’s not cutting, but it’s suddenly quite a bit sharper, somehow. Rounded. He’d seen how rounded it was for himself. He trembles anyways. 

“--it could be quite dangerous,” he finishes softly, pumping the finger in Roy’s ass, curling it just so. 

“See,” Ed says conversationally, adding another finger. “I don’t _want_ to punish you. I mean, I _want_ to, but you’re so infuriating. Begging for it every time I leave you an opening. Practically throwing yourself in front of my fist. If I really punished you, you’d win. And me?”

Roy can feel the stretch, knows from experience that two fingers is enough to take Ed if he wants to (and he _wants to)_ but feels Ed adding another. Too fast. It burns. Not as bad as if he’d added something else, of course, but he twitches away from it before he can help himself. 

“I’m going to be the one to win tonight,” Ed finishes. “Even if I have to drag the victory out of you, kicking and screaming.”

“ _Please_ ,” Roy begs, and the burn warms as Ed gently glides his fingers in and out, rhythmic, _pull, press, pull, press._

“Please?” Ed sounds shocked. “Here I thought that you had no manners.”

“You can’t take me anywhere,” Roy agrees, “have to stay home--ah, hng,-- with me, let me treat you nice in private so I don’t embarrass you in front of the other wives,” he pants, spine arching in an effort to get Ed deeper, eyes closed. He’s losing himself in the fantasy now, sweat sticking his jacket and shirt together, heavy and wet against his skin. 

There’s a pause before Ed replies, and his voice catches a bit, his fingers losing their steady movements for something more frantic. “Yeah? You gonna keep me at home, husband? Treat me like a good little wife should be treated?”

“I would be _privileged_ , yes, I—” Roy starts, but Ed cuts him off, fingers moving faster, and he has no ability to speak. The air is stolen from his lungs and the words from his tongue. Ed takes his hand off Roy’s throat, abrupt, slaps it against the wall. His fingers dig into the drywall.

“Fucking—” Ed groans. He pulls his fingers out. “I can’t, I’m sorry, rain. Rain.”

Everything drops with a rush; the fantasy, the heady feeling, the way his orgasm is sneaking up on him in heavy, thick waves. He gasps as Ed removes his hand, trembling, but his heart is racing rapidly, a rabbits beat against his sternum. He turns, vision still blurry, and finds Ed’s expression wretched beneath sweat and blush and smeared lipstick. Roy’s hands find Ed’s face and he cups it, straightening and hushing, soft. “Hey, shh, what happened?” He asks, gentle, words only a little slurred. “Can you-- are you hurt?” 

Ed sniffles, goes to wipe his eyes with his flesh hand, realizes what it’s covered in, drops it. “No. Yes. A lot. I’m sorry. I thought I could do it. But I. I want it too bad. And it’s not fair. I can’t--think.”

Roy brushes away Ed’s tears with his thumbs, smearing mascara down his cheeks. The dread and fear is softened a bit by Ed’s admission that it’s not a lack of desire that has him safewording, but too much. God, if it had been the alternative Roy’s not sure how he would survive it. This fantasy is vulnerable. Tender. It’s a part of him he only examines on occasion, when he wants to remind himself why he chose the other fork in the road (or, sometimes, when he wants to feel a misery strong enough to pierce the apathy gained from a path of politics.) To have Ed see it, participate, and then reject him? Surely he wouldn’t survive it. 

“You don’t _ever_ tell Winry I said this,” Ed says. For all that he’s crying, his voice doesn’t crack, doesn’t waver. Roy’s nauseous, suddenly, a creeping awareness growing that _rejection_ might not be what’s happening here. Not Ed rejecting him, at least. “I tell you, and no one else ever knows. Not Riza. Not Hughes’ fucking grave. We never write it down. Those are the terms. And we—just. Can you accept that? Can you listen to what I need to say?”

“Anything,” Roy whispers, saliva filling his mouth. “Anything, yes, Edward,” and the name feels strange in his mouth after all this time keeping it locked away. They’re out of the scene now, despite Ed’s costume and makeup and the props lying around everywhere. Ed’s not his wife-- pain, sharp, between the ribs-- and he’s not coming home to him like he does every night. They’re playing a game, and a foolish one at that. He hasn’t even _seen_ Ed in months, much less every evening and every morning and sometimes lunch in the middle. 

“Winry knows, about what we talked about. Me and you. Before the wedding. And she knows—” Ed swallows, sharply. Roy’s chest aches. “She knows that nothing came of it. But she didn’t want to know… who said no. Exactly. And. I have kids. I can’t—but I still think about it. Sometimes.”

 _All the time,_ hangs in the air, unsaid. 

“I would have married you in a heartbeat, if it was legal. And I,” Ed chokes, squeezes his eyes shut. “Roy, I think I still would. I can’t pretend this doesn’t mean anything. It means too much. I hate it. I hate me. I hate—I shouldn’t feel like—” 

Roy cuts him off with a palm to his lips. It’s trembling. Roy’s trembling. He’s-- 

He’s furious. Why is he furious? He shouldn’t-- he needs to, Ed’s, and, and.

“I-- fucking, sandstone, fucking, god _damnit,_ ” Roy curses, some of the fire leaking from his lips, rushing up and out with nowhere else to go. 

“You can’t safeword out of my _feelings,”_ Ed says incredulously, muffled. 

It takes three deep breaths before Roy can let go of the urge to scream. “It’s that or I --” he stops, drops his hands, looks away. The anger, despair, fucking incredulity pulses inside of him hotly, a mockery of a heartbeat. He’s gone soft. He pulls his pants from where they fell around his thighs and buckles them, feeling vulnerable in the glide of his ass cheeks together from the lube. 

Ed takes several large steps back. He hugs himself around the waist. “Or you what. What’ll you fucking do to me that’s worse than what you already did, huh? I didn’t say _no_. But you keep acting like its my fault that I’m married. You’re not the only one hurting and, I, I _begged—_ ”

He stops. Takes a deep breath. Takes another. 

“You do this,” Roy snaps, hand in his hair. “You pick at your wounds, won’t let them heal. You always have, you never _learn,”_ he stresses, pulling a little so that he can feel the pressure against his scalp, ground himself a little. “Why don’t you,” and he stops, isn’t even sure where he was going. 

“Pick—Roy, _look at me!”_ Ed yells, gesturing at himself. Lube spatters off his hand. “You’re not wrong, okay. I’m mostly scar tissue. And I don’t always know what’s going to rip it open. And I’m sorry I fucking ruined this, but I thought I could _have it._ I spent weeks trying to figure out how I could have this, and now there’s holes in your wall, and I just wasn’t fucking strong enough. Okay? I can’t hear you—” 

“Argh!” Roy shouts senselessly, palms on his face. He wipes away the expression and what’s left is tired and drawn and hurt. “I don’t want to do this, Ed. I don’t want to hurt, not about this, not anymore. We made our choices, and despite it we’re _here._ ” _You didn’t have to tell me. Why did you TELL me._ He’s the one who’s monogamous, after all. He’s the one who knew that Ed couldn’t be with him, _he_ made the virgin sacrifice to the goddamn dragon of fate so that they wouldn’t destroy themselves on the fantasy. 

He steps forward carefully, palm outstretched, on offer for Ed to take if he wants it but not forcing, never forcing. The fingers twitch. Ed’s miserable on the outside in mirror to the way Roy feels, wet and slimy and wrinkled and stale. He still tingles from his toes to his ass from the working over Ed gave him and he shifts, uncomfortably aware of it. 

Ed rubs his face into his own shoulder, smearing makeup all over the dress. He plops his lubey hand into Roy’s, petulant, but there. 

“We suck at this,” he mutters. 

“I can show you sucking,” Roy says dryly, pulling Ed in and against his chest, palm at the back of his neck so that he can tilt Ed’s face up and catch his lips. He kisses him gently, soft pressure, lips pulling lightly at Ed’s pout until he begrudgingly pushes back. 

“Remember when you were all ‘can we go to the bedroom or what’ and I was like no? Why don’t we just.. get away from…” Ed gestures at the table, at the kitchen, at the five holes punched in the wall above the calendar. “The Fuckfeast.”

That gets a pathetically small laugh out of Roy that ghosts over Ed’s face, old coffee and whatever Roy had for lunch probably an unpleasant mix. Fuck, he’s been feigning sexy all this time wth rancid mouth and Ed hadn’t said anything, the trooper. “Yeah,” Roy agrees, “In a moment.” He’s got their foreheads pressed together and he marvels for a moment at how enormous his feelings for this man are. He never thought he’d feel anything this big in his lifetime, and here it is, in all it’s chaotic, golden glory. 

“I got granola bars in your nightstand. For when I get hungry at night,” Ed says. “So like... don’t even have to worry about how I ate all the Xingese before you got here. I was actually gonna put it in a casserole dish and like, pretend I’d _just_ been taking it out of the oven. But then you were taking forever, and I got hungry, so I started fucking around in the ha—”

“Ed,” Roy laughs, covering his mouth with his palm as he laughs bigger, more genuine. “Stop, you’re ruining the magic.” 

“I melted all the chocolate chips out of them though,” Ed says, warming to his topic, grinning. “So—”

Roy adds his other hand, really covering Ed’s mouth until it’s just muffled noise and wet, soft lips against Roy’s scar tissue delicate enough to make his heart flutter. “Shh, stop, I’m trying to bring back the morose atmosphere.” He carefully moves his hands away and Ed, unable to help himself, the twerp, licks them as they pull away just so Roy will make a face. Roy does, and wipes his palm along the side of Ed’s dress, and then settles one at his hip and the other under his chin, index knuckle tipping it up. 

“Do ya like my hair, at least,” Ed asks softly. 

“You’re radiant,” Roy whispers, eyes dark. “You’re always radiant, but today, doing this? For me?” There’s pain, and he closes his eyes till it passes, won’t do that to either of them. 

“My dress is ruined. But. I mean,” Ed says philosophically. “I only bought it so you could take it offa me, anyways.”

Roy shakes Ed’s chin a little and pouts. “Will you let me get out my dramatic declaration of love, Edward?” 

“Will you go upstairs and ride me into the mattress?” Ed challenges. “I can’t stop you then.”

The rush from slightly aroused to full hardness nearly knocks him out and Roy feels the breath leave him in a rush. Ed;s words are a sucker punch to the solar plexus, and what’s worse is that Ed sees and appreciates every moment of it. 

Ed walks to the table, grabs the ball gag, dangles it enticingly. “Hm? Or, your tie, maybe.”

“Gods above,” Roy sighs dramatically, and it’s only a few steps to catch Ed by the waist and spin him close again, back to Roy’s front. They fit neatly together, puzzle pieces from different sets that somehow match perfectly. 

It’s easier this way, not to see his face, and he brings his lips to Ed’s ear and whispers, “I would marry you in a moment, you relentless gremlin of a man. If it was an avenue available to us-- one where I could protect Amestris and you could have your family-- then I would take it. I wouldn’t allow anything to stand in my way of it, I would wage a _war_ for your hand, Edward. Just so you’re aware.” 

Ed clears his throat, clears it again. “I wasn’t. Aware of that. I mean. Why the fuck did you think I was so upset? _Wretch._ ”

“Wretch!” Roy calls out as Ed slips from his grip with a well placed twist, heeled foot stomping on Roy’s boot.

Ed’s eyes are bright and he’s already darting out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Race you!”

“WRETCH?” Roy shouts again, feet taking him after Edward before he can process the movement, perpetually drawn to him, unable to resist. He catches him at the top of the stairs, giddy in a way that doesn’t make sense. They hadn’t-- they _didn’t--_ but it feels with a surety that Roy can’t place like they did. 

Ed screeches as Roy lifts him off of his feet and pretends to throw him down the stairs, only catching him at the last moment and swinging him back in a play that crumbles his spine in the process. Ed’s heels are barely staying, Ed’s toes tipped up to try and keep them on.

“Ooh, Armstrong,” Ed says. “You gonna take your shirt off next?”

Roy sputters, stomping towards the bedroom, “First wretch and then _Armstrong?_ You _wound_ me!” Ed doesn’t get the chance to reply, eyes already squeezed shut and nose squished up in preparation for when Roy throws him onto the bed. He bounces, skirts billowing around him and hair flying about, and it’s simultaneously the cutest and funniest thing Roy’s ever seen. 

“I’m determined to kill the mood by any means necessary,” Ed deadpans when he’s recovered from the landing, wiping hair out of his eyes. It’s _everywhere._

“These laces will do it for you,” Roy mutters where he’s bent over trying to undo his boots as rapidly as possible in an effort to get his hands on him. 

“Finally, my investments in shoelace makers—” Ed starts, and Roy can hear the rustle of fabric, assumes that Ed’s pulling up his skirt. “--I knew that they’d come through! Even if velcro ruins me!”

“Oonf,” Roy contributes gracefully, falling on his ass in an effort to yank his boot off and scrambling back up once he’s free. His hair’s a mess over his forehead and he grins in something like excitement and trepidation, feeling extremely young for the first time in longer than he can remember. 

Ed’s got his arms folded behind his head, skirt hitched up and lace underwear tugged halfway down his thighs. “Well? You gonna teach me a thing or two for next time I’m on top or what? Experience before beauty and all.”

“You’ll be the death of me,” Roy rumbles, shucking his uniform as fast as he can, eyes trained on Ed’s erection where it arcs gracefully into the folds of his skirt. The underwear is red and delicate, all lace with a small black rectangle of cotton. Between the cream of his thighs and the colors Roy’s nearly mad with desire to touch. 

He gives up on his dress shirt and leaves it hanging open as he crawls over Ed’s smooth legs (he _shaved,_ he went in for this fantasy the way he goes in for everything, some hideously beautiful combination of under and over prepared) to mouth at the crease of skin between hip and thigh. 

Ed’s cock nudges instantly against Roy’s chin and leaves a wet smear behind that Roy ignores, sucking a bruise hard enough that Ed keens and arches his spine. 

“Hurry _up,”_ Ed whines. “Oh my God. Are you trying to die of old age before we get anywhere?” 

“I’m barely a decade older than you,” Roy protests, staying where he wants. Ed’s not even kicking at him yet—he means it, but doesn’t _mean_ it. 

“And I’ve grown fucking _ancient,_ ” Ed says, and yes, there comes the kick. “My skin is, is, wizening.”

Roy looks up, a pun about wisdom already on his lips, but is startled to find the ball gag in Ed’s automail hand. The elastic band is wrapped around his fingers carelessly, and Roy could almost believe it was an accident. That Ed had just forgotten to put it down. 

“Perhaps if you weren’t distracting me quite so much with your exceptional attempt at a conversation—”

Ed’s eyes light up, and the hand holding the gag twitches. 

Not an accident then. Not even a little. 

“--we could be doing something else by now,” Roy finishes smugly. He slides the gag from Ed’s fingers, dangles it consideringly, watches the shine off the red silicone. The copper one had been sexy as hell, but dangerous on Roy’s teeth, unfortunately. Maybe he has a thing for metal.

His eyes cut to Ed. 

“Nonverbal safeword is kicking you across the room,” Ed says quickly.

Roy snorts. “It is _not_. You lost that one.”

“I still say it’d have worked _fine,”_ Ed gripes. Still, he reaches back to loop Roy’s tie loosely around the wrought iron bedpost, the thin tail draped along the mattress and easily within Ed’s reach. It’s wrapped enough that it won’t fall from _exertion_ , but Ed won’t have to figure out anything more complex like untying a knot. 

“There,” he huffs, and Roy reaches out to press his thumb against Ed’s bottom lip. Sharp teeth capture skin and Roy grins back to match Ed’s own tilted smirk, finger held captive. 

“Kicking can also be on the table,” he acquiesces. He gets a playful one in the side with the automail foot that still leaves him wincing. Making Ed stick to saner, safer versions of a nonverbal safeword hadn’t only been for his ribcage’s sake— Ed had a natural tendency to freeze up with his automail when he didn’t feel in control. A ‘don’t aim the gun at anything you don’t want to see dead’ reaction.

Ed refuses to release Roy’s thumb, tucks it into the side of his cheek and talks around it, “Oh, good. Would hate to deprive you of me floppin’ round like a dyin’ fish. I know that’s your favorite part, when I accidentally knee you in the balls.”

“Oh yes, you’re just _heartbroken_ when you have to deprive me of things,” Roy says, removing his thumb and offering up the ball gag. Ed slides it in himself, works it around on his tongue until it sits comfortably. Roy raises himself up off his arms, kneeling over Ed with one knee tucked up against his chest, the other against the blankets to help position himself. He’s sitting on the flat of Ed’s lower belly, his skirts stuck under Roy’s knee, and he slides his lube-slick ass back until he’s flush with Ed’s cock. It would probably be hot, if it wasn’t for the tacky lube and the way he pulls on Eds skirts so that they tug tightly at the seam in the waist. 

“And if you could manage to get your knee _here_ from _there_ ,” Roy says, reaching underneath himself to align Ed. “I do have to admit I’d be impressed, ye— _ah_.”

Ed twitches his hips up, cutting him off, insolent as ever. 

He’s electric, all the nerves that Ed had been tormenting in the kitchen coming back online. Not as sharp as before— if before he’d been 15000 volts in a fence, now he’s the soft hum of a generator just turned on. He feels like he could go all night, and like he might explode into a million metal and glass fragments. 

Roy shifts back to change the angle, pulling more on Ed’s skirts. Ed’s cock glances _just so_ and he gasps, lightening sparking along his spine. There’s a thick tearing sound as his whole body jerks. He gasps in horror, staring at the length of fabric in his hand. Edward makes some kind of muffled noise.

It’s laughter. His eyes are smug, his _lips_ are smug, he’s laid out under Roy in ruined mascara and a ball gag and a ripped dress and he’s still somehow coming out on top. 

“Well,” Roy tries to say casually, “that’s one way to get you undressed.” Ed rolls his eyes and raises his hands, wiggles them in the air as if to say, _May I?_

Roy rolls his eyes back, forces his own hand to let go of the dress. There’s more room now, his access finally uninhibited, his balance steader. He grabs one of Ed’s wiggling hands, slaps it on his own hip. “I’m balancing, help me get—”

Ed looks nearly physically pained at the inability to make a joke about Roy breaking his hip, tries to make up for it with an eyebrow wiggle and a gesture at them, but puts his other hand where their bodies almost meet to help line his cock up with Roy’s hole. 

“Mmm, thank you, darling,” Roy says, slowly lowering himself, Ed’s copper nails leaving crescents in his skin, ten little love bites.

It’s strange, that initial— it’s not something he’s used to, certainly. Ed’s fingers didn’t feel like this. Nothing feels like this. There’s all kinds of comparisons to be made, all kinds of tawdry paperbacks to reference, but what really happens every time is that his brain sets off an alarm consisting of the word FULL at full (ha) volume. 

Ed knows, obviously. It’s his customary melodramatic response and so he doesn’t play any dirty tricks or try and push Roy to get revenge for the gag, instead flexing his fingers and smoothing his hands up and down Roy’s thighs as he adjusts, body taut and trembling. His lower back starts to ache from the strain and Ed makes a pitiful sound, a high whine to get past the gag. When Roy looks up his brows are furrowed and he thwaps him on the thigh, chastising. Roy blinks a little numbly, breathing through his nose, and Ed sighs loudly and massages his hips a little with a pointed look. _Relax._

As if he _could._ His body is on fire, his heart is beating triple time, and he’s got a serious case of euphoria from the sensation of Edward’s cock in his ass.

“Relax?” Roy asks, voice breathy. “In _this_ economy?”

Ed chokes a little on the laugh that gets stuck behind the gag and Roy freezes, leaning forward to lay his fingers across the strap in case he has to remove it for him. The angle changes and lights him up and he moans, Ed’s hand flapping at his fingers in irritation. 

He forgets about the gag. He forgets about— a lot of things. His hips start working, instinctively, and it goes from FULL to FASTFASTFAST. Not a description of what he’s doing, by any means, but an incessant demand. It’s, he can’t even feel Ed in him. Not properly. All he can feel is the desire to feel _more_. 

He slides back, hand catching himself by Ed’s head as he makes a romantic sound something along the lines of “shiiiiiiiit”, mouth falling open. Ed’s face is flushed and his nostrils flare as he sucks in air through them, eyes hazy with lust and also a heavy dose of pure satisfaction. “Yeah,” Roy breathes, head tipping forward as his hips shove back. Ed gets his heels under him and gives Roy more leverage. “Yeah, you’re wondrous, Ed. You’re phen- _oh-_ omenal,” he pants, because isn’t he supposed to be praising Ed? And he _deserves_ it. 

He wants to make another joke. He has some, but none of them are making it past his lips. (No wonder you look so pleased, I’m doing all the labor, you capitalist scum, something about hazardous working conditions.) Instead it’s the horrible sound of his own voice, his own breath, the desperate way he loves Ed and the desperate ways Ed makes him feel all pouring out. Not shameless. But unstoppable.

“It’s beyond anything I could have ever dreamed of,” he babbles, “You, this, _us._ My heart is tumescent with joy, my home is filled with love, my--” Ed finally gets traction on the heel and rams up into him hard enough that Roy has to catch himself or be launched away. Roy is fairly certain his soul _levitates_ out of his mouth. His soul sounds like a particularly undignified shriek.

“--my butt is filled with dick.” Roy finishes, blankly, because sometimes that’s really all there is to say, and Ed does his best to scowl past his drugged expression. He’s drooling around the gag, lips shiny with it, eyes half lidded, and he _still_ manages to look menacing.

Ed keeps thrusting, and Roy tries to match his rhythm, but it’s not the effortless thing that Ed always seems to make it. His thighs are burning (in a good way) and he keeps forgetting how to move (in a bad way, wriggling up and down and away, Ed’s hands the only thing keeping him seated). 

Roy’s struggling. He’s _tired._ He didn’t know Ed was coming, he had a long day at work, he feels a billion years old, he didn’t eat his canned sandwich, and he’s been cutting down on caffeine like some kind of health conscious idiot so he can actually live long enough to enjoy the Fuhrership. Ed must take pity on him, because he slows their bodies to a halt, eyes warm. 

It’s hard to tell, at first, what the hand on his belly— are Ed’s hands usually that delicate? They can’t be, that doesn’t even make _sense,_ it’s entrancing — pushing him gently backwards is trying. He fights it, windmilling his arms as he tries to balance. Ed huffs a big breath out through his nose, grabs one of Roy’s arms and places it behind him. On Ed’s thigh.

Oh. 

He’s— _seen_ this pose. Certainly. In theory. It’s inadvisable, with Ed’s automail. The pictures had always made it seem erotic. 

The way their bodies align means that he’ll be leaning his weight directly on or next to the seam in Ed’s automail, and Roy _knows_ that would hurt, knows it _always_ hurts, from the weather and humidity and air pressure and position he last slept in and which route he takes to the train station, cobblestone or brick. 

“Your leg—” Roy says. Ed’s eyes narrow, and he _shoves_ at Roy’s stomach. Roy goes wildly off balance, has no choice but to catch himself. 

(It is a choice, of course. But that split second of falling— he can’t not catch himself on Ed. He always catches himself on Ed, when he’s falling.)

“Edward,” Roy tries to sound firm, but he’s scrabbling for composure. It feels so--exposed. He feels so exposed, soft underbelly and dick the closest things to Ed, balance finally comfortable but somehow stretched out thin. His back is arching, and he can’t tilt his head down to look at Ed without risking a fall. 

That mirror on the ceiling was— maybe a good idea. Too bad he’d never had it installed.

Like this Ed is pressed up deep inside of him, the MOREMOREMORE being met with the splitting sensation of Ed’s entire cock grinding against his prostate. It’s insanity. It’s better than sex. 

Wait. It is sex. But it’s not, it can’t be— he’s lived with this body for longer than he’ll admit, and he’s never made it _do this._ This isn’t something _bodies can do_.

(This is without a sliver of disbelief something that Ed’s body can _easily_ do, but he’s not sure that Ed qualifies as human and shouldn’t instead be classified as a chaotic mutated sex gremlin. Gremlinus-Sexitus-Shortimus.)

And then. 

And then Ed drives up into him. 

The angle must be--exhausting. He’s moving Roy’s entire body, bouncing his hips hard and fast, bouncing _Roy_ hard and fast. There’s this awful keening (how many times has he heard Ed make that noise, but this isn’t _Ed’s noise_ , and he’s—) and he’s—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Roy says in his best Ed impression. This whole experience is bringing them closer in a myriad of unexpected ways. 

Ed pauses, for just a moment, and Roy takes the chance to breathe and beg. Two things that seem simultaneous, now. He’ll never tease Edward again, this is _hell_. “Oh, what, why, Ed, what? Don’t, no, please, you can’t-- _please_ I was so _close,_ Ed--”

There’s an incredibly wet noise, a slurping sound he never wants to hear again that must be Ed removing the gag, and then Ed says, “Ride me. C’mon. I know you can. It’s all in the stomach, it’s easier than you think.”

Roy lets out a pathetic little sob. “I never do my sit ups, I always lie to Riza about them.”

Ed laughs. “You fucking idiot,” he says, and then he’s moving Roy, hands on his hips, showing him the motion. It’s not all in the stomach, but— that makes sense, Ed wouldn’t want to put pressure on the port when riding him like this. It’s a whole body movement, starting in the knees and up through his core and into his shoulders and down to his knuckles where they dig into Ed’s thighs. It’s somehow _less_ exhausting than using _fewer_ muscles. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it, c’mon, c’mon. Show me, show me what I’m doing to you, lemme see it—”

And Roy’s falling apart, but this time the rhythm stays, so much easier to upkeep this way, momentum that stays, inertia that meets no resistance as he rolls his body into Ed’s.

Then Ed says, “Show me what’s _mine_.” 

“Hnnnnnnnnnh,” Roy shows, eloquently. He loses his rhythm, has to stop moving entirely when he teeteers to the left and almost falls. 

Terrible investment on Ed’s part, really. Hopefully the shoelaces work out better. 

His entire body stiffens, his spine in a tight bow with the string pulled taut as he braces himself for the ecstasy that crashes over him. Something about orgasming with someone inside of him changes the experience, and where he would normally be groaning and stuttering his hips he’s instead holding on for dear _life_ as wave after wave of pleasure ripples through his body. It starts in the delicate space between ass and balls, spreading down his legs to his toes, which curl in the sheets and maybe ripped dress they’re buried in. He rides it out, so to speak, Ed’s thrusting grows more frantic as Roy pulses around him, bearing down with his head thrown back, throat working to get a fucking breath in, _fucking hell._ He finally manages to drag one in, gasping and ragged. He’s wrung out. He’s like a wash cloth that someone decided to beat like a rug. He’s—

“Gorgeous,” Ed groans, and comes in him. The words slap into Roy’s eardrums, rattle around his skull, and the aftershock hits like a. Like a. Like a _ow, fuck, that’s a cramp, that’s a cramp in his thigh, he is going to fucking die—_

“Fuck, shit, oh my fucking shit,” Ed’s yowling like a feral alley cat, and Roy’s left calf muscle is attempting to _seceed from his skeleton,_ so he’s yowling right along with him. Several fraught moments of physical dysfunction later, Roy’s been tipped forward onto Ed’s chest, which is still covered in. Dress. It’s nice. Cotton, he thinks. That’s a clothing material. He’s nearly certain. 

“... did you have a cramp?” Ed asks, belatedly. 

“I’m lucky I still have _legs,_ ” Roy groans. 

“You’re low on magnesium,” Ed tells him primly, momentarily possessed by Al. He’s lifting his chin in that way he does when he wants you to know he’s disappointed in you. “You’re low on,” Roy pauses, to think of something suitably devastating. “Height.”

“I fucked the brains out of you,” Ed says, sounding quietly amazed. With _himself._ “Finally.”

“Polysyllabic.”

“What?”

“Big...words.” Roy yawns. “I know ‘em.”

Ed’s snickering helplessly. “Yeah? Wanna tell me some?”

“Ummm,” Roy says. If he keeps adding m’s, it’ll surely be long enough eventually.

“Here, let me help,” Ed soothes. “Nincompoop?” Roy swats at him lightly. “Ignoramus?” Roy figures out that if he just lifts his hand up and then lets it drop he can hit him harder. “Tumescent heart?”

“Never. Never speak of that.” Roy rolls off Ed. It’s a massive effort. 

“Roy. I have no idea what tumescent _means._ I don’t think that _you_ know what it means.”

“Because you only read _alchemical journals,”_ Roy says. 

“Use it in a sentence. I dare you.”

Roy takes a deep breath, and safe in the knowledge that Ed will think he’s inventing every word as the result of a demented tortured mind rather than reciting from his favorite novel... “Torgalf’s member was tumescent with lust, Heidi’s bodacious breasts—” 

“Woah, woah, wait. Wait. _Wait._ ” Ed sits up, palm on Roy’s chest and stares at him. “Eastern Girls Make Due?“

Roy lets out a horrible noise. “Why do you _know that?!”_ He tosses his head back in agony and throws his arm over his eyes. “You’re _perfect_. What do I _do now?”_

“Hm,” Ed hums. “Well, if the example is Eastern Girls Make Due, I think you commit fraud and spank me with your belt. Then I fall in love with you, somehow.”

“My belt’s on the _floor,_ ” Roy whines. 

“Good thing I’m already—” Ed clears his throat, choking on the words. He usually does. “No belt needed.”

Roy feels something warm in his chest start to claw its way up his throat. That’s twice now Ed’s alluded to loving him almost-directly head on. Usually he couches confessions in antonyms- _I hate you, I loathe you, why do I put up with you, you fucking asshole, you ruin everything._ Roy doesn’t have any sort of immunity built up for this sort of direct assault. “I love you too,” he says, knowing he has a limited half life before Ed’s radiation takes him out. “So much, Edward, I can’t even--” “---then fucking _don’t---_ ”

“The effort you put into this evening with me was staggering, my love.” Ed tenses beneath him and hisses. “The level of care and thoughtfulness you provide me with is something that I never expected to be permitted, after--”

Ed is suddenly sticking his cold fingers all over Roy’s belly, and Roy spasms, the muscles still trembling there and the skin oversensitive. “MffgAH-- _what are you_ —” 

“After all the work I put into this sexy sex equation, I think that I deserve the final product of the transmutation.” Ed swipes his fingers in their mess and brings it to his lips. It’s probably meant to be sexy— definitely meant to be distracting — but he obviously can’t help the face he makes, nose wrinkling and lips twisting sourly. 

Roy knows what he eats, and he can only _guess_ at what Ed eats. Ed was scolding him just moments ago for vitamin deficiency. That either of them ever swallow is a miracle. Letting it touch his taste buds first? Unimaginable devotion to avoiding Roy’s feelings. 

Roy tumbles into another fit of giggles (he’s giggled more in this relationship than his entire childhood twice over. He’s not sure how he feels about that, other than wanting to giggle more) and catches some on his own index and middle before doing a pathetic attempt at a sit up to smear it over Ed’s pink-stained lips. He groans as he does the sit up, muscles in quivering distress, and Ed laughs at him when one of his legs flops out like — yes, a dying fish. 

“I may be slightly out of shape,” Roy declares, before Ed can declare it for him. It will hurt far more if he has to hear Ed say it than if he claims it preemptively. Drive the narrative, or whatever. _Politics._

“But I love your shape,” Ed says. He then turns bright red, looks away, and slams his mouth shut. 

Roy will not cry. It’s — unlikely, on multiple levels, for him to cry. It’s such a rare event that he’s sometimes worried his tear ducts have been blocked up. Bricked over by little tear stealing elves. The _desire_ to cry is still there. 

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he jokes. He can even almost pretend it was funny. Flops his head on Ed’s chest, so that Ed doesn’t have to look at him and he doesn’t have to pretend he’s having a normal reaction to a… barely even a compliment. He’s so _weak._

“Well,” Ed says, puts his arms around Roy. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not very good at nice.”

 _“Clearly.”_ No one Roy’s ever loved has been _nice_. They rip him open and they use him and he rips and uses them back. If he had to describe his type to a matchmaker, he’d tell her that it’s ‘almost attainable but not actually’, and she’d ask him if he understood what romance was for. He’d say that they clearly have a different understanding of romance, and leave her with a recommendation for _East City Pities: Erotic Tales of Love Almost Requited._

“What can I say? I have a type,” Ed smirks. “People who can’t fucking stand me, and who have just _killer_ asses.” 

“Oh, god,” he says aloud, burying his nose in the salted silk of Ed’s neck. The (fake?) pearls cram against his chin and he blows a wet raspberry underneath Ed’s ear, mostly to distract him before he starts verbally comparing him to his wife and ruins the mood again with his perpetual need for self flagellation. But partially because it’s funny. “No comment on Winry’s—”

“Damn right no comment, bad enough I have to hear _hers_ on _yours,”_ Ed snips, shoving at Roy’s face breathlessly to get him to stop. 

The silence. Stretches.

“...what does Winry—”

“Nope, nope, nope, Roy, we’re not going there, down that road lies a threesome and I’m not strong enough—”

“It lies a _what—_ ” 

“--for that, I’ll actually die. You’ll both _kill me._ You want me to be _dead, Roy—_ ” 

Roy’s head is spinning, voice on autopilot. “Sex with your two spouses would be a stellar way to go out, though,” he hums, thinking. He and Winry get along spectacularly well, considering their history, but ‘friendly banter at Ed’s expense’ and ‘naked in bed together’ are two _completely_ different relationships. 

He’s so busy thinking he doesn’t realize how long it’s been since Ed said anything at all.

“Ed?”

“Shut up. Don’t—I will. Talk with Winry. Then you can talk to Winry. No, wait, what am I fucking saying, _you_ bring it up to her,” Ed says, voice veering wildly between hysterical and distressed.

Roy is feeling hysterical and distressed now, and he bites Ed’s nipple and grabs at his inner thigh simultaneously in a one-two punch distraction method. 

“Ow!” Ed says, slapping at Roy with both his hands.

“Ow!” Roy says, pulling off of Ed’s nipple to roll out of reach. “Automail!”

“You’re automail!” Ed yells. Roy makes a face at him, but Ed yells again first. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”

“I have low blood sugar!” Roy yells. It’s true. Probably.

“That’s why there’s granola bars in the drawer!” Ed yells. “I took all the chocolate out though!”

“Why are we still yelling!” Roy yells, continuing to yell.

“I don’t know!” Ed yells. “It’s kind of fun!”

“Would you like a granola bar!” Roy yells.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP,” yells Riza, from downstairs, and there’s the thumping sound of a broom handle on the ceiling.

***

Neither of them bring it up to Winry. 

She brings it up herself.

**Author's Note:**

> “We brought home Cretan!” yells Al. “Did you have good sex!”
> 
> “If you kill me, I’ll kill you.” Roy says.
> 
> “Where’s my spare clothes, if I don’t get my hands on pork noodles in the next ten seconds I’m eating your love handles.”
> 
> “You said I was in shape!”
> 
> “I said I LIKED your shape!”
> 
> “You said you _loved_ my shape!”
> 
> “YOU’RE BOTH PRETTY, NOW GET DOWN HERE,” yells Riza.
> 
> Somehow, through the multiple floors, they hear the sound of a gun cocking and the distinct squish of noodles being poured into a doggie dish.


End file.
